Nesting Habits
by nerdyalice
Summary: Like father, like son? Dominic Rook had a difficult life, whether that was down to nature or nurture it was sometimes hard to tell.


** Warning:** themes of domestic violence

**AN:**

I don't own being human or the characters and I'm still as skint as ever ;)

Any mistakes were unintentional

* * *

Dark. It was black as pitch, cold and damp. They were in a tunnel, its original use unknown, although it would have been a likely refuge during the blitz; it had become a shelter once again only one of a wholly different kind in the last year. The floor was wet with something, be it water or something more sinister was hard to tell. A chill crept its way along his spine with each encroaching step, but he couldn't let them see that, he had a part to play. The suit was a costume of sorts, when wearing it he adopted a fearless detachment to everything around. The stench of death hung in the air, the rich heady scent of blood, all rusty metal and pen ink, was a foulness that tainted the space. It mingled with the surrounding smell of urine and excrement. The piercing beam of artificial light; their guide, caught the profiles of the dead as it danced around the corpses. Their footsteps echoed through the space and there was a sound of dripping nearby, breaking the grave silence.

He turned to face his men, well boys really; this was his first time leading an expedition and their first time on one at all.

* * *

He'd been initiated into the DoDD early, being the son and heir of Frederick Rook; spending school holidays working in the archive, sorting files and swatting up on the types and historically important cases with an almost morbid fascination, he'd had little choice in the matter. At the age of 18 it had been decided he would receive an Oxbridge education, he needed to have the correct political and business aptitude to take on the role he was destined for. During the long breaks outside of term time he'd begun doing field work and joined the department full-time after Graduation a few months prior.

* * *

He assessed the situation with a practised detachment.

"Type 2s - vampires. Clearly a blood-bank gone wrong. They're quite common in big cities a surfeit of fools with warm veins and no wherewithal."

Bodies on mattresses lay out on plastic sheeting. Office water cooler bottles, that'd been used to collect the victims' blood, were strune about the place.

It was obvious to him that something had gone wrong, they'd been monitoring the spot for a few days, and one thing or another must have led to the creatures destroying their own farming system. He wagered they'd simply lost control or grown tired of it, he supposed the set up they'd created here must've taken a fair amount of upkeep; they had most likely just decided to return to their base instincts and begun to hunt traditionally once again.

"Some types 2s think their affliction can be controlled. But no matter how civilised the arrangement, the monster is simply lying in wait."

They needed reassurance; one of the men looked sickly.

"Do you know what I tell myself every morning? No care, all responsibility. You will best serve Her Majesty and the Government if this doesn't affect you."

He ignored the vomiting as best he could, it would be embarrassing enough for the poor lad as it was. Truth was they were only a year or two younger than him, but he'd had to grow up quickly.

"Come in, clean up, clock off. No care, all responsibility."

It was easier said than done. Even when you could leave the monsters at your door and shrug off the atrocities you'd seen like a coat, it did not stop them following you into your dreams.

"Remember that and you'll have a bright future in this department." They were the new generation and it was his job to lead them, he momentarily felt a sense of pride.

It should be a relatively easy task, despite the scale of the casualties. Collect the carcases destroy those with no next of kin to worry about them. Repatriate the bodies of those that did, adopting an appropriate cover story for their deaths.

He heard a scuffling noise, perhaps there were indeed survivors or maybe the offending creatures were still on the scene.

"Shhh!"

He approached the source of the sound with subtle lithe movements, a small female was curled up on a makeshift bed. It was essential to treat her with suspicion, they had records of T2's recruiting children before. She could be a ploy, bait in a trap for unsuspecting good Samaritans to fall into. He removed the compact mirror he always carried upon his person. The lack of image cast from vampires meant the records of registered type 2's were missing an important piece, he could be looking at the infamous Hettie and not even realise it.

He flicked open the compact with a precise and practised ease, her small pale face reflected in it looking directly at his own.

"Human" he diagnosed.

He removed some latex gloves from his back pocket, she was a dirty little thing and living in squalor she could be carrying any number of germs and infections.

"Come now. Quickly."

At first he was annoyed when she didn't move an inch and instead cowered away from him; then it struck him, she wasn't an item to be catalogued or a piece of evidence to be bagged and labelled, she was a frightened child. A child alone and frozen by terror, just as he had been once.

* * *

When his father had had a particularly bad day at the office, which was it seemed, most days, he would relax with a drink or two or three.

His earliest childhood memories were of muffled voices building up to shouts and screams and glasses breaking; he didn't understand back then. He stayed locked in his room for the most part, because 'children should be seen and not heard'; which was fine, until he reached an age where picture books and match box cars were of little entertainment.

At the beginning his father had just been a bit rough, a tight grip, a clip round the ear, all to 'knock some sense into him'. Why did his mother never step in? She was kind to him, loving as she should be, but meek, quiet and timid when it came to how his father treated him.

'No care, all responsibility Dominic, it's vital you remember that' a phrase which punctuated every episode, a repeated to him from when he ate his breakfast to when he was tucked up in bed.

The time he had smuggled home a stray kitten in his school satchel; hiding it in his room and sliding bits of dinner into his pockets when his mother wasn't looking (father rarely ate with them he was always at work); his father flipped when he found out. 'It's a filthy animal Dominic; don't waste our food on it.' His tone harsh, eyes narrow and mouth drawn into a flat line. "But I'm being responsible" was Dominic's reply, aged ten. "I've fed her, cleaned up all her messes, please let me keep her." He'd sank to his knees with the pet clinging to his school shirt mewling and half hidden behind his blazer like a shield. (She was a tatty wee tortoiseshell and he referred to her as Mog) 'It's a runty thing, no care, remember? You'll grow up to be soft, boy. It should be tied in a sack and flung in the river.' He'd flinched at his fathers words, the kitten was wrenched from his arms by its scruff and he received a slap.'Don't you ever dare do anything like this again.' He whimpered but tried to keep face, his father would only berate him further.

It only worsened after his mother's death.

He was eleven at the time; she'd fallen down the stairs. He wept in secret, so his father would not see. He was treated to some books and a dice game, but that didn't fill the empty house. His father embraced him after the funeral, but it was too cold a gesture to be termed a hug. 'No care' he whispered in his ear, a horrific echo with a possibly sinister meaning his young mind could barely comprehend. It caused a shudder to rake through his body as the tears welled up and fell in uncontrollable sobs.

'Grow up boy! And be responsible for a change!' Out came the belt that time. He was twelve and had just announced to his father, his aspirations to become a musician after gaining grade 4 violin. His father made it clear he thought it folly and told him what a disappointment he was. They argued; which was futile and he was punished. The lash of the leather and the bite of the buckle was a sensation so vivid and cruel, to think of it was to feel its pain all over again after nearly a decade.

His father died a week after that. 'A heart attack at work' they'd said, he didn't care; looked like his father had finally gotten his wish after all.

A burly man put his hand on his shoulder as the coffin was lowered into the ground, he turned to face in when it was all over, just a single tear shed through the entire surface. "You're the splitting image of him" said the man; he had thick black hair that came down to his jaw, but thinning a top his crown and beginning to turn grey. He also had great moustache that hid his entire top lip. Dominic took all of this in with wide eyes whilst staying silent. The man was dressed in grey, rather than the standard funeral black, though he wasn't the only one here, most of the men were, he recognised none of them. "Your father was a good man" he said with a reassuring and surprisingly warm smile. "I've got something to show you."

* * *

He removed the gloves shoving them back into his pocket; they probably made her think of the dentist, if she'd ever been. Children didn't like the clinical probing associated with such things.

"It's OK. I won't hurt you."

She was small; he'd always been small for his age, it wasn't a bad thing, it made it easier to go unnoticed. He wondered if that was how she'd survived this long, playing hide and seek when the vampires came. The wardrobe had been his favourite hiding place; perhaps she'd crawled behind the upright mattresses or found a small gap in the brick work.

He felt a deep sense of satisfaction and for lack of a better word, amazement when she inched towards him and took his hand. He lifted her with great ease, she must have been famished she was so light. She nuzzled her face into his shoulder and he felt something he'd never thought he would. A primal instinct to pull her closer and protect her, he tilted his head to close the gap and reassure her she was safe. So this was why adults would run into flames and jump into rivers to save a strangers infant.

He had to remind himself of his own mantra; he couldn't let this little one effect his judgement.

"No care, all responsibility."

He gave the nod of 'mission accomplished' they could collect the corpses later, she was priority.

They pounced then. The first of his men was dead within seconds. At least it was quick, if indeed immensely painful as his throat, larynx, arteries and veins were pulled away from his flesh and bone. His body fell to the floor with a resounding thud, as it lay there, empty eyes rolled back, spinal vertebrae exposed and almost luminous in the torch light. The second lad met an equally ghoulish fate, neither quick thinking enough to reach for their standard issue crucifixes. Not that they'd had much time to. He watched as they were ripped apart, utterly unable to do anything, to fight was to die and he has the child to think of. The torch clattered to the floor as the second man fell.

The vampires encroached on him and the girl, with soulless eyes and faces dripping with the blood of his peers. He held his crucifix firm and they staggered back from its meaningful value. Religious talismans worked, no matter what faith you were. That was in page one of their training manual.

He girl cowered into him.

"Close your eyes. Don't look at the monsters." It was too little too late for that he feared, but he said it anyway, it seemed right somehow.

He slunk backwards and let the darkness engulf them.

He ran, her weight of little burden, holding on to her as if she was the most precious cargo. She gripped tightly to her angel, visions of all the horrors her young mind had witnessed played beneath her eyelids as the air rushed by, fresher and fresher with each jolting footfall, until eventually they were in the blinding light. It was a dull morning but after the repressive darkness of the tunnel and all the deathly sights they'd left behind it seemed heavenly.

He strapped her into the van and with a violently shaking hand made a breathless phone call.


End file.
